


he's still dead when you're done with the bottle

by mildlyobsessive



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Trigger Warnings, im trash, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyobsessive/pseuds/mildlyobsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Blood still stains when the sheets are washed</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Sex don't sleep when the lights are off</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Kids are still depressed when you dress them up</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	he's still dead when you're done with the bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note from the future!!!!:  
> hi so I wrote this over two years ago, very well before the accusations against melanie martinez came to light. I obviously do not condone anything she has been accused of, and do not (once again for obvious reasons) support her or consider myself her fan. With that being said, I changed the notes on this (super cringey old piece written by 15 year old me) to not endorse melanie martinez. I would also change the title, but this fic revolves around the lyrics of one of her songs so I want to make it very clear that, while this is a song fic based on her music, I do not in any way support or defend her. Thank you!!
> 
> (literally no one cares or asked for this but I wanna make my position known oops)
> 
> (Also please don’t read this it literally sucks check out my newer stuff I promise it sucks slightly less and is in general much less cringey than this actual pile of flaming garbage)

_Blood still stains when the sheets are washed_

.…

When Phil was little, he liked to watch his teddy bears drown.

Something about it fascinated him, though he couldn't have told you what. Maybe it was the soothingly consistent swish of the washing machine, or perhaps the way that his stuffed friend did intricate little backflips, around and around. He didn't think it made much of a difference either way.

His parents were slightly concerned about his somewhat morbid habit, but only just. More often than not, they used it as a distraction tactic, plopping him in front of the machine whenever they were too busy to entertain him. 

It must not have had some kind of deep psychoanalytical meaning, because Phil hadn't grown up to be a serial killer or anything. No, he was a nice person. A good person. Someone who deserved a happy ending, someone who had treated everyone around him so well that karma should have been obscenely good to him. But still, with what could only be described as some kind of sadistic joke played on him by god or maybe just a painfully perfect example of irony, there he sat, in front of the washing machine, eyes glued to Dan's infamous checkered comforter, which was splattered with what couldn't be mistaken as anything other than what it was; blood.

Blood that, at first, had been a brilliant dark red, blood that had been stolen from Daniel Howell's wrist with the deadly kiss of a razor blade. Blood that had pooled onto the aforementioned blanket, that had stained it with pain and suffering and death. 

But now it was nothing more than crusty brown stains glued to the bedspread, with no intentions of leaving. Blood was stubborn like that. It wanted to mark it's territory, to make itself at home, to force Phil to remember things that he wanted nothing more than to purge from his memory.

It was Phil's third time washing it, throwing it back in the machine time and time again. Most people would have given up after the first or second try, would have resolved that the blanket was ruined, and had it retire to its new home in a dumpster somewhere. Phil, however, simply couldn't bring himself to do that, because that was surrender, that was accepting that Dan was really and truly gone, and he could never do that.

…

_Sex don't sleep when the lights are off_

…

Bottle in hand, bottle in mouth, bottle in pieces on the linoleum floor. That seemed to be Phil's routine, as of late. Because it seemed that alcohol was the only thing he had left now, a single thread keeping him grounded in a world gone upside down.

He was being melodramatic, he knew. Yet knowing did not equate to caring. Dan had fucking killed himself, for God's sake. He had every right to be a mess. 

The liquor always hurt swirling down his throat. It singed and burned, as if determined to crawl back up and free itself. But practice makes perfect, and Phil was getting an awful lot of practice at keeping his drinks down. Besides, he didn't much mind the fire in his throat. At the very least, it was a distraction from the crushing weight in his chest, the pain that made him feel like he was Atlas, and it was his turn to carry the weight of the world.

The booze was an escape route. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn't like they wrote in those irritating country songs, about beer and sex and fun. This wasn't a game, full of late nights out in clubs, and wild parties. This was Phil's only way of not following in Dan's footsteps, and that, clearly, involved neither laughter nor getting laid. 

Though, if he was being completely honest, Phil hadn't been having much sex even before Dan took his perverse bow. He wasn't a virgin; no, there had been girls in university, nights so clouded with the haze of drunkenness that he could scarcely recall them. And then Dan had showed up, with his pretty brown eyes, and a laugh that was inexplicably annoying and adorable at the same time, and . . . Well, one thing led to another. 

But those rare occasions always led to tears, to Dan curled up next to him shaking, tearing through his hair and muttering that this was wrong and "I can't Phil, I can't, they'd all hate me, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry."

It was moments like that that Phil revisited the most, poured over at 4am as he collapsed in Dan's bed (still without its blanket). Memories that proved just how blind he'd been, how he had refused to notice just how broken the beautiful boy next to him had been. Phil hadn't noticed. Phil hadn't asked. Phil hadn't even thought it was a possibility.

That is, until he had come home to find a comforter soaked with blood and a razor gripped in Dan's limp hand.

…

_Kids are still depressed when you dress them up_

…

The door of the flat opened with a squeak, its hinges unaccustomed to movement after a month of disuse. Martyn wrinkled his nose at the smell, a rancid combination of sickly sweet booze and garbage that hadn't been taken out for four weeks. "Jesus Christ, Phil," he muttered, taking in the disarray of the apartment.

The older brother raised his voice. "Phil? Are you in here?"

Nothing. 

"Come on, please answer? Mum's worried sick about you."

Silence.

"Goddammit," he sighed. 

Martyn picked his way through shattered glass and turned over furniture. If he was being honest, it pissed him off. Yes, Dan had checked out, and it was tragic and terrible, but he hadn't realized that would mean he would lose Phil too.

He probably should have seen it coming. It had always been Dan and Phil, after all. Never just Dan, and never just Phil. Dan had said it himself; "I think I'd be sad if you died. Better just kill us both." But Dan had been the one to leave, to abandon Phil. He had left Martyn's brother all alone, and he couldn't not resent the boy for that.

"Why couldn't it have been a car accident?" Martyn felt awful saying it, could feel the guilt seeping through him the second the words left his mouth, but he meant it all the same. Because Dan had chosen to leave, had hopped ship of his own free will, and that made everything so much worse. And maybe Dan didn't have to worry about it anymore, but that did little to change the fact that he'd left behind a family wondering where they went wrong and a fan base now seeing the path their idol took as a viable option.

And Phil, of course, the best friend, left all alone in an apartment too big and too dark.

Phil, the little brother that Martyn found curled up on his dead friend's bed, wearing his 'Manchester University' sweatshirt.

He saw him, and his throat closed up, because for a split second he thought he was gone. But then Phil lazily rolled over, glaring at his brother with eyes that Martyn had never seen look quite so sad, and the earthquake in his stomach dulled to just a throbbing ache of pity. Physically, this might be Phil. Mentally, he was closer to an empty shell.

"You can't stay in here forever, you know," Martyn managed.

Phil's voice was raspy and full of hopelessness. "Why not?"

"You have family and friends, Phil. People who need you. The kids need you, too. They can't handle losing both of you, not at once. Not like this."

"I can't help them. I couldn't even help my own damn best friend." Phil pushed himself into a sitting position with one twig-like arm and Martyn thought he might puke because oh, God, how long had it been since he had eaten?

The older brother sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, which was stripped down to only its blue sheets. "I know, okay? What he did was horrible, and I know that you're mad at him, but Dan's gone, Phil, and you need to mov-"

And Phil exploded.

"Mad at him? Mad. At. Him?! Why the actual fuck would I be mad at him, Martyn? He was sad, he was hurting, he was a fucking danger to himself, and I didn't notice! I left him to deal with it on his own, and he thought this was his only way out, and I couldn't save him! This isn't Dan's fault, it's mine and now he's gone, Martyn, he's fucking gone and it's all because of me!" He was crying now, tears streaming down that face that had always been pale but now shined sickly white, as if it was beautifully pure snow that had landed on the ground flawlessly, only to be stepped on by the boots of children and corrupted with the grayish sludge left on the road.

Martyn witnessed his baby brother crumble, and he was clueless to what to do. He reached one shaking hand toward Phil, touched his shoulder with all the precision and gentleness one might use whilst handling a time bomb. "This isn't your fault, Phil. Jesus Christ, it's anything but your fault."

Phil didn't even seem to hear him, instead turning away to escape Martyn's hand. Without thinking, the older brother snatched Phil's wrist, desperate to make him see that he didn't deserve this guilt.

Phil flinched, and fuck, Martyn wished he didn't know what that meant. "Oh, shit. Oh, God, Phil, no, please not this."

Nothing; no reaction other than a series of rapid blinks that indicated that Phil was trying to hold it together.

Martyn slowly pulled up the sleeve of Dan's old sweatshirt, praying desperately to every god that he had ever heard the name of that this wasn't what he thought. But he supposed every deity in history was just busy at that particular moment, because Phil's wrist confirmed his fears.

It was littered in scars, a few just beginning to heal over, but the rest still red hot, freshly carved into the porcelain skin. And the sight made Martyn's stomach tie itself into knots, because this was his little brother, the one he was supposed to look out for, the one that was his responsibility.

"It was my fault," Phil whispered, and Martyn didn't need to say anything. He just grabbed him and wrapped his arms around his brother, vowing he would never let him go again.

"Oh, God, Phil. This isn't your fault. Please, you have to believe me. He wouldn't want this. You know he wouldn't want this."

Heaving sobs racked the younger one's body, and he was shaking, crying harder than Martyn had ever seen him cry before. "He . . . Was still alive when I got home," Phil choked out. "Martyn, I walked in and there was blood everywhere, and he just looked at me. He just looked at me and whispered something about being sorry, and I called the ambulance, but I wasn't fast enough. Oh,God, I wasn't fast enough. He should still be here. I should have saved him."

And they sat there; two brothers, one broken and one barely holding it together, one that had witnessed something truly terrible and the other that had to pick up the pieces left in the aftermath.

…

_And syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup_

…

A year came and went, passing the way time always did; simultaneously dragging on and going by much too quickly. The world had kept on spinning, much to Phil's surprise. Whatever happened, the world always kept going, and birds kept singing and people kept laughing.

Phil was learning to laugh again.

That wasn't to say that he had forgotten Dan. The very thought was preposterous, as ridiculous as forgetting how to ride a bike or write your name. It was simply something that would never happen. 

But long gone were the dark nights full of booze and self destruction, of guilt and self hate. That wasn't to say that it wasn't tough. On the contrary, it was the hardest thing Phil had ever had to do. There were still nights where he cried himself to sleep, hours in the early morning when his mind took a turn down dark and dangerous roads. But he was done letting the sadness win, done letting it consume him without a fight. 

Besides, it wasn't what Dan would want. 

And it had all led to this day, as Phil took a deep breath and kneeled down before the headstone. He ignored the inscription, most likely something cliche about how Dan had been a beloved son and friend. Because the very idea that everything Dan Howell had been could be hit onto a slab of stone was insulting to his memory. He had been unique and beautiful and funny and caring. Proof that some sad boy from England could become someone extraordinary, someone who had changed the lives of millions. 

"It's been a while," Phil said, and the quiver in his voice was present but not strong. "I'm sorry I didn't come and see you sooner. I didn't know if . . . If I could handle it." He gestured towards the flowers leaning against the gravestone. "Sorry about those too, by the way. They don't sell black flowers. I asked." A half-hearted laugh escaped his lips. "But not bringing anything didn't feel right, I guess.

"Look, I'm not going to pretend that I'm okay here without you, because I'm really, really not. I miss you so much, Dan." Phil ran a hand through his hair. "It's been a year, and I still don't know exactly why you . . . did it. You didn't leave a note or anything. All you said was 'sorry,' but what were you sorry for, exactly? Leaving me here alone? But why would you do it, if you were sorry?" He sighed. "I guess you were hurting. Damn it, I wish you'd told me, Dan. I would done whatever it took to help you. Not that it matters much now.

"I love you. You know that, right? I always will. It doesn't matter where you are." Phil pushed himself into his feet, and the sun shone on his clean arms. "I really hope it's better, wherever you are now. Maybe I'll see you there, one day."

He took a few steps away from the grave, but stopped, turning to face his best friend once more. "Probably not anytime soon, though. Sorry about that."

The wind whistled through the trees, carrying the sounds of birds chirping. Phil could see Martyn and Cordelia in the parking lot, anxiously waiting to see if he was okay. He was. Well, as close to it as he was going to get.

"Bye, Dan."


End file.
